by Carrie Elks
“Sure,” Jonathan drawls, his thumb hovering over the 'off' button. “I'll ask my secretary to set something up.” He presses the button, and the cameras whirr back into the wall. The screen turns off, leaving the room dark, and it makes me realise just how late it is.
“Well, that was a ten-minute meeting dragged into three fucking hours.” Jonathan says, rubbing his face. “I don't know how many times we had to go over the bloody schedule, it's like they didn't believe us.”
“I hope you're not pissing off my clients,” Callum remarks sarcastically. “Anyway, since we charge by the hour next time try and drag it out for longer, okay?”
“Maybe you'd like me to dial in in my pyjamas?” Jonathan smiles. “Or perhaps I can send them a flash of my girlfriend's tits. Speaking of which, I was supposed to meet her at a restaurant half an hour ago, so if you'll excuse me.” He stands up and grabs his papers, stacking them neatly into a pile. “Thanks for staying late, Amy, you did well to keep your temper.” He looks over at Callum. “She's doing great.”
“She is,” he says softly.
Then it's just the two of us, and the room seems to shrink in size by about fifty per cent. Callum gently wraps his fingers around mine.
“I've been thinking about you all afternoon,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes my wrist. I wonder if he can feel my pulse race. “Wondering when I can kiss you again.”
“Not here,” I say breathily. Though if he tried I don't think I could stop him. “Somebody might see,”
“Delayed gratification then. Let's go and grab something to eat, and we should probably have a talk.”
Immediately, my stomach drops. “A talk?”
“After what happened last time I want to make sure we both know where we stand. I don't want to wake up in the morning to find you gone again.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You seem very sure I'm going to stay over,” I say. “What makes you think I'm not going home after dinner?”
He takes a step forward, holding my hand, until our arms are the only barriers between us. I still feel an intense need to press my chest against his. But somewhere in my horny, stirred up mind, I'm aware that I'm at work, and that a liaison with my boss is strictly forbidden.
“What makes me think it, Amy,” he lifts both our hands up, using his finger to trace along my bottom lip. “Is the way you look at me with those pretty blue eyes, the way your lips plump up whenever you do.”
“Maybe I have a new lipstick,” I murmur.
“Then I'll kiss it off.”
“Here?” I ask, a hint of alarm in my voice.
He shakes his head. “No, Amy, not here. When I kiss you—and I will kiss you—it's going to be so fucking hot it will blow the non-fraternization clause to smithereens. So I suggest we get out of here before I get us both sacked.”
I nip his finger before licking it softly with my tongue. His eyes blaze in response, and he retreats as if he's been burned.
I know I have, and I like the feeling much more than I should.
* * *
When we come to a stop outside Callum’s house I frown, glancing at him from the corner of my eyes. “I thought we were going to eat?”
“We are.” Callum pulls his key from the ignition before unbuckling his seatbelt. His movements are calm, collected. A contrast to the nerves that seem to be my constant companion. “I wasn't planning on starving you.”
“We're eating here?” I don't know why, but when he mentioned dinner and a talk, I pictured it happening in some dimly lit, expensive restaurant in the West End.
Not his house.
My question makes him smile. “That’s the plan. Is it a problem for you?”
I find myself backtracking. “Not at all, I just didn't know you could cook.” I unfasten my seatbelt. “You can cook can't you? You're not expecting me to whip something up or anything, because I have to tell you I can cremate water.”
It's a true fact. Neither Alex, Andie or I inherited my mum's cooking skills, in spite of her many attempts to teach us. We'd starve without microwave dinners and Mum’s Sunday roasts.
“No, Amy,” Callum says slowly. “I’m not going to ask you to cook for me. I'm thirty-three years old, I think I can manage to cook us some dinner.”
I don't tell him that cooking well isn't an age-related thing.
“Okay then.” I open the car door and hop out onto the dull-grey pavement, sucking in a lungful of fresh air. Though the sun hasn’t yet gone down, the moon is already out, an orphan half-visible in the wide blue expanse. I look at it for a moment, feeling somehow insignificant, but then Callum grabs my hand and we walk towards his house.
It feels strange, holding hands with him. His fingers weave through mine and his thumb brushes the inner skin of my wrist, and nice turns altogether dirtier.
I'm not sure why his hands fascinate me so much. It's not as if he uses them for much more than typing on a keyboard, yet they're strong and long and when I look at them I can't help but remember what they did to me that night.
In his house.
This house.
Oh God.
“Hang your coat up there,” he says when we've walked into the hallway, pointing at a row of hooks. “I'll go and open a bottle of something and get started on dinner.”
“Good, I'm starving.” I've recovered my equilibrium enough to give him a cheeky grin. “Hop to it.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he calls from the kitchen, then under his breath he mutters, “Cheeky bitch.”
“Oi, I heard that.”
“You were supposed to,” he replies, good humour lacing his voice. “Because you are a cheeky wee bitch.”
“Wee?” I walk into his kitchen, my eyes raised. “Did you really just call me 'wee'? I'm not sure whether to be more offended by that, or the way you're a walking stereotype.”
He puts down his knife, gently laying it on the chopping board. There's a glint in his narrowed eyes, a playful anger that sets my heart racing. Then slowly, deliberately, he walks towards me.
I back up until my hips are pressed against his black granite work surface. A minute later, he’s against my front as he towers above me, so tall it feels like I'm craning my neck.
When he's this close it makes it hard to breathe. Though I'd never admit it, he does make me feel 'wee'.
“What?” I manage to get out.
The corner of his lip flickers, but otherwise his expression remains neutral. I wait for him to say something, but instead he stares, his dark-green eyes never wandering from my face. A lump forms in my throat, big and rough.
After a long moment, he wraps his hands around my waist and lifts me until I'm sitting on the work surface. Though the granite feels cold through the fabric of my skirt I don’t complain, because all I can think of is the way he's pressing his hips into mine, and the long, hard ridge of his cock.
“What are you doing?” I murmur.
“This.” He pushes again, the movement sending a thrill that makes my toes curl. Then his hand is on my chin, tipping it up until our lips meet. He pushes his tongue inside the seam of my lips at the same time as I wrap my legs around his back. We're kissing and rocking, hands everywhere they shouldn't be, the only sound in the room our loud, embarrassing gasps.
Callum stands straight, his hands underneath my bottom. For a second I think he's going to turn around and carry me into his bedroom, but instead he pushes his hand under the hem of my skirt, his fingers seeking out my warmth. He slides one inside me, then two, his thumb pressing against me in the most delicious way. I close my eyes tightly, my thighs flexing like a clamp around his hips.
“Amy,” he whispers. I barely hear him. Blood rushes through my ears like a swollen river. I rock my hips, creating a rhythm that matches my heartbeat, unashamedly riding his fingers as my body reacts to his touch. Then he fumbles for his zip, releasing his hard, pulsing cock, and I reach for it. The next minute I'm pulling my knickers to the side, guiding him until his tip is brushing against my slickness. He pushes
until I open up for him.
Callum steadies me, his hands holding me firmly, lifting me up and down until we're both panting loudly, breathing into each other as we kiss. I can feel the pleasure building and swirling at the pit of my stomach, radiating out with every thrust. Though we're both dressed—my skirt ruched around my waist, his trousers pooled at his feet—my nipples are hard enough to press through my thin bra and blouse, rubbing against his muscles.
That's when I feel it. The crescendo. The high. It takes me over, cell by cell, until I feel like I'm melting into him. Electricity courses through me, fizzing at my skin, and I freeze in his arms. My mouth is open and my voice silent as I ride the sensual, dizzying wave.
“Amy,” he says again, his lips trailing down my throat, nipping at my skin. “You feel fucking amazing when you come on me.”
He waits for my orgasm to settle before he moves again, reigniting the flame I thought had gone out. I squeeze around him and he moans, his thrusts becoming erratic and hard, and I can tell by the way his breath stutters that he's reaching his peak.
“Callum,” I whisper in his ear. “I want to feel you come inside me.”
He groans and angles his hips, fingers tightening on my behind, pressing in so hard I know he's going to leave marks. But I don't care, because nothing else matters apart from his pleasure, so I squeeze him tight until he mutters against my chest.
“Fuck, shit, fuck I'm going to come.” His accent broadens, as if he can't even control that. His eyes are shut, his lips swollen and red, and all I want is to see his expression when he lets go.
My wish is fulfilled a minute later, when his hips slam into mine, a low groan escaping his mouth. He stills, his hands holding me tight, his face glorious as his orgasm overtakes him. At that moment I realise I could spend my whole life watching Callum Ferguson come.
It takes a moment or two for him to recover, but when he does, he pulls out of me, gently lowering me to the floor. A thin, white line of semen rolls down my inner thigh, and he watches it, licking his lips.
“That might be the sexiest thing I've seen,” he says, his eyes still trained on my leg. “I might have to make you eat dinner just like that.” He presses his finger to my thigh, spreading the wetness, then moves his hand up until he presses the pad against my mouth.
“Lick,” he orders. For some reason I do exactly as I'm told, peeking my tongue out. His fingers tastes salty and wet—a curious mixture of him and me—and I suck it into my mouth.
“Are you trying to turn me on again?” he asks gruffly. “Because it's fucking working.”
I smile. “No, I'm just bloody starving.”
We spend the next few minutes cleaning up in his bathroom. He washes me gently with a flannel, lingering on my thighs, and pulls my skirt down, trying fruitlessly to smooth out the creases. His trousers are already fastened, but I'm pleased to see they look as messed up as my clothes.
The other thing I notice—which surprises me—is the lack of awkwardness between us. We talk easily as we leave the bathroom, laughing and giggling, and I love the way everything slots together so perfectly.
Pun absolutely intended.
Callum returns to peeling potatoes and chopping onions, passing me the glass of wine he poured out before we were distracted. I sit at the small glass table in the corner of his kitchen, sipping Sancerre and admiring the way his bottom looks beneath the dark blue wool of his trousers.
“I should have asked you about birth control,” he says, slicing a red pepper into thin strips. “Although the words 'closing the stable door' and 'after the horse has bolted' spring to mind.”
“Did you just compare yourself to a stallion?” I tease, still shocked by my lack of embarrassment. I remember how things were with Luke, when I could barely bring myself to say the word 'condom'. “And I'm on the pill, thanks for asking.”
He turns around, knife still in hand, and fixes me a grin. “It's not my fault you're so fucking gorgeous I lose all common sense.”
I roll my eyes. “The excuse of stupid men everywhere. This is why the planet's overpopulated.”
He frowns. “Because you're gorgeous?”
“No!” I protest, laughing. “Stop trying to sweet talk me. All I'm saying is that birth control is a two-way thing. I knew I was covered, but you...”
“I just wanted to see me dripping down your legs,” he says, his pleasant tone belying the dirtiness of his words. “And yes, I'm an idiot for not talking about protection before, but for the record I'm clean. I wouldn't put you in any danger.”
I soften. “I'm clean, too.” I made sure of it after seeing the photo of Luke with that girl. “For what it's worth.”
Even when he turns back to resume chopping, I can tell he's smiling from the tone of his voice. “Not from where I'm standing, babe. Everything you've done tonight suggests you're very fucking dirty indeed.”
21
I'm not sure what wakes me up. Perhaps a strange middle-of-the-night creak, or the shaft of lamplight that sneaks through the velvet drapes covering Callum's sash windows. Whatever it is, I roll over in his unfamiliar bed, frowning when all I come in contact with is a cold, empty mattress.
It takes another moment to realise what's wrong. I'm used to sleeping alone—especially after breaking up with Luke—but I'm not used to doing it in a strange man's bed. I rub my eyes with balled-up fists, trying to wipe away the thick sleep that sticks my lids together.
“Callum?” The air is frigid enough to make me shiver. I pull the sheet around my chest, but the cotton does little to stave off the cold.
There's no answer. As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I realise he's not in here, and swing my legs around until my feet hit the wooden floor.
I pick up a t-shirt and pull it over my head, unwilling to walk naked through his house. It doesn't matter that we spent half the night unclothed and glistening with sweat, because right now, I feel vulnerable.
The hallway echoes to the sound of my bare feet slapping against the floor. A strange wistfulness weighs me down like a heavy blanket. I come to a stop in the doorway of the living room and look around, spotting him sitting in the large, leather wingback chair that's placed next to the open fireplace. He has a glass of whisky in his hand, the ice tinkling as he circles it around, and there’s a serious look on his face.
A long minute passes until he notices me. His eyes rake up and down, taking in the thin, white t-shirt that's scarcely decent, and my bare thighs that emerge from the hem. Though there's a melancholy expression on his face, there’s also a fire behind his eyes.
We stare at each other for longer than is comfortable. It's awkward yet compelling, pinking my cheeks and sending a shot of desire through my body. Then—almost without thinking—I walk across the room.
“I woke up and you were gone,” I say, my voice wavering. “I didn't know where you were.”
His thick, dark lashes brush his cheeks as he swallows the final mouthful of his whisky. “I had a bad dream.”
For a moment he’s almost child-like, awakening some dormant instinct deep inside me; the need to console is almost too strong to ignore.
I climb onto his lap, tucking my feet beneath me, and wrap my arms around his neck. He places his hands in the small of my back, burying his face in my shoulder.
Softly, I stroke his hair, murmuring sweet words into his ear. My fingers drag against his scalp, and I feel his breath hitch once, then twice.
What the hell is wrong? After a night of frantic lovemaking, it's almost frightening to realise he's so vulnerable, and I've no idea what to do.
“Tell me about your dream,” I whisper, not loosening my hold on him.
He looks up at me, blinking. “It was a nightmare,” he says. “The same one I always have. I wake up and she's there.”
I start to feel sick. “She?” I ask.
“Jane. She's there, holding me, I can't get out.” He's still so muted, his voice a monotone. “Her arm is pinning me down and no matter what I do, I can't
get her off me.”
His eyes are glassy, unfocused. I wonder how much he's been drinking. I've no idea what the time is. Although it feels closer to morning than night-time, the last thing I remember was falling asleep just after 1:00 a.m.
I cup his face with my hands, his half-beard scratching my palms. He looks at me as if I have all the answers, and I find myself wishing I did.
“Shh, it's okay,” I croon, as if I'm talking to my baby nephew. “It was just a dream, I'm here. You're going to be okay.”
When we kiss, there's a sweetness to it. His lips are soft, whisky-coated.
“Tell me about her,” I say. “Tell me about your wife.”
Callum says nothing, though his arms tighten. His wrists cut into my waist, almost hurting, but I can’t ask him to stop. Instead I continue stroking his hair as if he's a little boy, breathing in the earthy, masculine scent which tells me he definitely isn't.
It feels like forever before he finally speaks. “I graduated from University in 2003 and walked straight into a job at Richards and Morgan. Back then they used to take on about fifty graduates a year, it was the boom times. So there were a lot of us competing for the best projects, and trying to see who could drink the most on a Friday night.”
“Sounds familiar,” I mumble.
“I met Jane in my second week. She’d graduated from Cambridge the year before, although she was the same age as me. Even so, she had this air of ‘been there and done that’ I liked. It seemed a simple step to ask her out, see where things went.”
I don’t want to hear this, but I think I need to. This girl—this woman—has played a huge role in his life, leaving scars I didn’t know were there. I have to force myself to say, “Go on.”
“As I said, we all worked hard and played hard. Stayed at the office until ten, and then headed straight to the bars. Sometimes we’d have enough time to stumble home, take a shower and drag ourselves back into the office. It wasn’t sustainable, and it wasn’t healthy, but it was what everybody did. So that’s how I lived for four or five years.”
